


Slick

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [3]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2019-09-24 05:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17094932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: Killing people is messy.





	Slick

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for goretober 2016; prompt "too much blood." this is the same protagonist from "every nuance of misfortune."

It’s fucking _everywhere_.

It’s all over him, of course, that’s not surprising, but there’s some on me and it’s all over the floor, too, and there’s a lot on the walls and a little on the ceiling.

(fucking _how_?!)

The poor wretch slumped against the back wall, limbless, pale, and partially flayed, seems almost too small for so much blood, but this is yet another surprising thing I’ve discovered about the human body since I started spending too much time with my most frequent customer.

(By now, I know that anytime Strade comes in asking for help with something, he is not actually asking for help but for a second set of eyes and a private audience.  Not an accomplice, necessarily, since an accomplice would actually be doing something, right?  And if I don’t do anything, then I’m not an accomplice, right?  I’m just standing in the back where the camera can’t see me, refusing to make eye contact with the person screaming for help, waiting for them to stop screaming so I can ask if he’s gonna bury the body right away or, you know, if he’s gonna wait like an hour for no particular reason.  

He raises a brow when I say, “no particular reason” and starts to get this dangerous look on his face until I begrudgingly admit that I would like whatever’s left when he’s done, like an embarrassed younger sibling waiting for the controller in a one-player game.)

The smell is overwhelming.  It’s the raw, coppery odor of a nosebleed mixed with something rancid that permeates the room and settles in strongly enough that I think I have to shower and rinse out my hair and scrub under my nails, and maybe that won’t even be enough.  

Strade actually looks appropriately surprised—not horrified or disgusted, though I’m not sure those things would even look right on his face—and then he chuckles.  “Wow, there’s a lot of blood, huh?” he asks as he stands in the middle of the basement covered in it from head to toe.  Some of it drips on me from the ceiling and I flinch, trying to find somewhere clean to stand.

“That’s,” I choke, “An understatement.”

“Mind giving me a hand?”  He holds up a towel.  A towel, like that’s even going to put a dent in the mess splattered all over and around us.  

“You want me to….”  I take it from him but stare down at my hands dumbly.  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Help me clean,” he says, sounding exasperated as though this should be obvious.

“Are you kidding me?  This…this isn’t even….”

A teasing grin works its way onto his face.  “Don’t tell me you’re squeamish.”

“No,” I say just as he reaches out with one slick, red and rust-scented hand, and my denial comes out as a high-pitched squeak.

“This really bothers you?” he asks incredulously, but rather than backing off he comes a step closer, still trying to touch me with hands covered in shredded tissue and dried blood and god knows what fucking else, “I never would’ve guessed.”

“It’s not like I can’t handle a little blood,” I insist, backing away from him, “Alright?  This is just a lot, like, even for you, this can’t possibly be sanitary and—would you, just, fucking stop that!”  I try to duck out of the way when he reaches for me again and feel my ankle twist when I lose my footing in a fucking puddle of blood.  The soreness in my backside as I pull myself upright is forgotten when I realize that I’m now covered in it.  It’s all over my hands and my pants and the back of my shirt, it’s on my face and it’s in my hair—

Then Strade is laughing, doubled over and clutching his stomach, covered head to toe in gore.  I don’t know what comes over me, but I find it contagious, and then I’m laughing, too, at the ridiculousness of it all, and for a minute I forget about the smell and the corpse tied to the pole and the fact that there is way too much blood in this basement and I still don’t know how we’re supposed to clean it up.

**Author's Note:**

> original tag commentary included "studio audience laughter"


End file.
